I could tell you that this morning, when I donned my Members Only sweater because it is 4°F outside, I itched like it was 1988 and Scritti Politti started playing out of nowhere. But that would be absurd, because Scritti Politti was already playing.
I’m not saying it was your destiny to move to Colorado and do a Kickstarter for a weed cookbook, but that is the shape of things in all known alternate realities.
It seems many of you have fairly robust December Sorrows afoot.
By way of solution I offer to you the following cheat code: listen to Pink Moon five consecutive times in a dark room and crystal armor shall form upon thy limbs/soul.
Champagne and benzedrine! Never again.
Moonraker by Ian Fleming, 1955
Re-reading all the (good) Bond books, as one does—it’s shocking how frequently 007 looks up “into two pert, sparkling eyes under a soft fringe of hair.”
Like, he never gets to look up into the Northern Lights, or to see the Goodyear blimp? Only pert, sparkling eyes? What a drag.
Feels like I talked about Flight of the Navigator an awful lot last night, again.
The ghost of Ogrodzieniec has picked me thirteen years running.
Your regard for me is governed by the presence or absence of a seven-dollar salad.